From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines, Going where I list, my own master, total and absolute, Listening to others, considering well what they say, Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.

Gear

Thursday, November 25, 2010

In times of yore, the land of middle Vermont, known locally as Mermont, was a place of tepid weather, flowing waters and green vegetation. With these mystically images in mind, I set out in the dogs days of August to see if I could find for myself the magic of Mermont, known locally in Burlington as the belly button of Vermont, or as the locals like to say, Mermont, hells bells thats where the city folk live except there ain't no city and the folk are really rabbits with large beaks and such stuff. Ah, Mermont.

It started out with the idea of a lazy 3 to 4 day bike trip. Naturally, that didn't happen. My first day lead my south through the idyllic rolling hills from Burlington, the metropolis of Vermont, to Middlebury where i stopped for my first break to stretch my legs and take full use of my food stamps at the co-op. With a full stomach I pedaled forth towards the nether regions of Rutland, a place many fear and many don't fear. Either way, it was hotter than a boiling cup of water so I biked along the roaring route 4 as I mentally prepare for my summit of Killington Mountain. Few have dared, less have succeeded and even more have driven it without a thought, and even more have skied it, and maybe a few less have hiked it and then somewhere in between that some never heard of it and then ONE bike it (that's me). With the full force of the sun beating on me, I scaled, summited and conquered the largest mountain east of Rutland along route 4. I freewheeled it into Woodstock to camp behind the firehouse in a bed of pine needles. I love pine needles.

The enxt day which was supposed to not be my last day turned out to be my last day. I hit White River Junction and just as quickly left it to get to the Connecticut river. Don't let the name fool you, it's actually a lake. Anywho, I meandered along the banks for many enjoyable miles considerign follwing the gentle lake into Canada when I remembered that I almost froze to death last time I went to Canada, so instead I cut due west into the hip town of Barre where I sat on some concrete. It was early and Burlington was a scant 60 miles away so I said, ehhh, and with 50 lbs of weight in my trailer chugged off a second day of 120 miles.